And fondly, fiercely, clasp’d it to his breast:
Three piteous moans, three hideous yells he gave,
Plunged headlong from the rock, and made the sea his
grave.
Where, screen’d by orange groves and myrtle bowers,
Saint-favour’d Cintra rears her gothic towers;
A nun there dwells, most holy, sad, and fair,
Her only business penance, fasts, and prayer;
Her only joy with flowers the shrines to dress,
Weep with the suff’ring, and relieve distress.